Counterpoint for Touched
by T'eyla Minh
Summary: Part Two up. Complete! The Buffy/Spike conversation from 'Touched', plus inner ramblings, from both of their perspectives. Based loosely on what my brain kept muttering at me throughout.
1. Part One

**COUNTERPOINT - "TOUCHED"**

_Summary: Basically, the Buffy/Spike scene of "Touched", from him kicking Faith's arse onwards. Follows the dialogue and action pretty much exactly, so no points for originality on my part ;)  
**Rating:** PG, Spuffy-centric angst.  
**Disclaimer:** Dialogue isn't mine, nor is most of the action since I followed it pretty much exactly as the episode went. Inner thoughts and feelings are mine, even if they're completely wrong…  
**Spoilers/Setting:** Well, it spoils Season 7 through to "Touched", and is set, as mentioned, in that episode.  
**Dedication:** This one's for Shilpa, because it's her birthday and I'm a cheapskate, and because I know she likes that scene about as much as I do…  
**Author's Notes:** This is the unfortunate result of Buffy-athons from "First Date" to "End of Days" in one sitting. It's also something of a tribute to the only episode on record to ever make me cry, since the Spuffy cuddle in that episode had me bawling like an idiot before I knew what was happening. This is based on some of the thoughts that were going around my head during the fourth re-watch ;) even though this fic doesn't cover those exact thoughts just yet. This is part one. Part two is coming whenever I finish it (but the second part has the good stuff, so be patient…)_

**Counterpoint - "Touched"**

for Shilpa

She lies there, and waits for the night. She waits for midnight, because it seems like an appropriate time, and because she's forgotten what time it is now, anyway. At midnight, she can pretend it's tomorrow, a new day, a new start, even though the darkness gets darker before the dawn comes. She can imagine it's the day when she has the energy to get up and try to win back her life, her friends, her entire planet.

She waits for a sleep that doesn't come, that hasn't for days. Or is it weeks? And that's when she remembers. Spike's not back yet. He's still off on whatever mission Giles sent him on this time, and the way she sees it, he'll either end up dead, or end up killing Andrew, but either way Giles will get what he wants. She tries to pinpoint the moment when thoughts of Giles turned her stomach, and thoughts of Spike brought up too many emotions to try and count. It's impossible. The whole world's gone crazy, and all she can do right now is lie in the dark and wonder whether or not she's in love with another vampire. _Top priority, Buffy. Really._ Even her inner voice is sarcastic.

There's nothing else she can do now, except wait for exhaustion to take over, and let her thoughts ramble beyond the plan she's been trying to form for weeks. It's not like there's any point to it.

Maybe, she thinks, if Spike had been there, being in the minority wouldn't have hurt so much. Maybe, she thinks, that knowing at least one person was on her side would make it better. That just having someone stick up for her would give her the strength to carry on. That knowing someone loved her, even when her best friends and her family betrayed her, might have stopped her giving up.

Except she's not even sure of that, any more. She hasn't exactly given him hope. He hasn't exactly given her any hints.

~*~

He leaves the house, fists aching from the fight with Faith, and curbs his anger until it becomes a dull thud in the pit of his stomach. He needs to find Buffy, and anger's not going to help anyone right now. He needs to tell her the news, show them who was right and who was wrong, and who knows, maybe she'll be grateful. He stops at the gate; he trains his senses to her. It takes a while. It's been so long since he's even thought of tracking her like this. It's only been a few hours since she left, if that, and he can still feel her presence in the air.

It takes everything in him not to let it all resurface, all the pain and the old feelings, the anticipation of seeing her. _'You're pretty sweet on her, aren't you?_' she'd said. _If only you knew, Faith… If only you bloody knew._

~*~

He's close. She feels it, deep in the pit of her stomach. Her Slayer sense is buzzing - it's been buzzing for weeks, now - only now it's changed pitch. It's a familiar anticipation, a familiar almost-dread that makes the hairs on her neck stand on end, and she wishes she knew what he wanted her for this time. No time to move, now. He'll be there any minute. She doubts she'll have the energy to get up and let him in, either, and it's not like there's any point trying to keep him out.

"Come on in, Spike," she mutters to herself.

~*~

He finds the house easily enough. The town's deserted, and all he can feel now is power. The First is gathering its army of übervamps, somewhere in the bowels of the Hellmouth; Willow's powerful, even though she tries not to be, and she's antsy, and Spike can tell; Anya feels it coming, and her own demon wants to be a part of it, struggling against the confines of whatever is left of her humanity; the power of the Potentials bubbles, waiting for release; Faith's a Slayer, and his instincts tell him to avoid her. Above and beyond it all, though, he feels Buffy. It's reassuring, in a way, that he hasn't lost his touch, that he's still able to pick up on her so quickly; it's also a little disappointing, because he'd hoped he'd be over her by now.

She's in pain. It's suddenly all he can feel, and he wishes he knew why. He's surely not supposed to be this receptive to the Slayer's moods and feelings. It's not his place to find out why she hurts, though. He's here for a reason, to pass on a message, and once he's done that, he's out.

~*~

Soon enough, he's there, waiting outside. Four knocks - strange he shows her such a courtesy as she denied him - and then five more, and then he appears. She doesn't make a move to greet him, or even turn her head. It's too much energy expenditure.

He sighs. She can hear the relief at having found her. "There you are. Do you realise I could just walk in here, no invite needed?" She'd tell him why, but there's no point. He should realise he's allowed wherever she is, now, and if he doesn't, that's his problem. "This town really is theirs, isn't it?" he asks, rhetorically. "I heard. I was over there. That bitch. She's all about smiles and reformation when you're on your feet, but the moment you're down, she's all about the kicking, isn't that right…" God, she'd forgotten how much he could talk. "Makes me wanna-"

"It wasn't just Faith," she says, somehow feeling the urge to correct him. "It was all of them. And it's not like they were wrong." Finally, she looks at him, and she knows he's not going to stop talking any time soon. Suddenly it's too difficult to cope with his signals, with the feelings she's not even sure he has any more, and she's too damn tired to work out her own. "Please leave."

"No." Why doesn't it surprise her? "This'll change your tune. I came here 'cause I got something to tell you." Secretly, she dreads it. Spike telling her things tends to end badly. "You were right," he says, positively gleeful about it. He can barely contain his smile, and she wonders how he can still manage it after everything he's been through. "Caleb is trying to protect something from you. And I think you were right all along. I think it's at the vineyard." He's expecting a reaction, but she can't bring herself to feel anything. It's like being brought back all over again, only this time, death isn't something she'd welcome, and it's not something she can avoid, either. "So? You were right!" And now he knows there's something wrong; he can tell. She'd somehow forgotten that he always could. "Buffy?"

"I don't feel very right," she admits.

He takes the chance, and starts to come closer. "You're not fooling me," he says, trying to sound like he's playing along, despite the fact he's obviously worried. He's cryptic as ever, just as observant. He's always known her better than she knows herself. It's still annoying.

"What do you even mean?"

"Well, you're not a quitter."

He sounds like he can't convince himself, so how does he expect to convince her? "Watch me…"

"You were their leader," he says. "You still are. This wasn't something you gave up, it's something they took."

"And the difference is?"

"We can take it back."

He's not even careful about the 'we'. He'll always take her side. It just came a little late.

~*~

It's safe to say he wasn't expecting a straight out 'no' as her reply. Some kind of chastisement for his presumption that they'd work as a team, perhaps, but not just 'no'.

"No?"

"No."

"You mean 'no' as in 'eventually'?"

"You really have problems with that word, don't you?" She still has the power to cut through him with only a few words, whether she knows it or not. It's not the time to let it bother him, and he can pretend it doesn't hurt faster than she realises it might have done. Only that's the point, isn't it? She never realises, not any more; at least before she knew what she was doing. Somehow it's worse when she doesn't.

"You can get them back."

"Can? Maybe… Should?" For a moment, he thinks she's going to cry, but it turns into a yawn. "I'm just so tired…" And she looks it, in every sense of the word, but tired or not, she's still the Slayer, and the world needs saving again.

"They need you." He catches himself before his 'they' becomes an 'I' - he's not part of the equation any more. It wouldn't make any difference, anyway.

"Well, I-"

"It's bloody chaos over there without you."

"It is?"

Except now he has to actually convince her. "Yeah! Yeah, it's… there's junk, y'know, food cartons, sleeping bags not rolled up, everyone's very scared and… and unkempt."

"Sounds dire…" At least she can still be sarcastic. Maybe he's doing some good after all. But nevertheless, after everything, she deserves the truth. He takes the risk again, and sits beside her.

"I didn't see much," he admits. "I came, hit Faith a bunch of times, and left."

She looks at him with something akin to gratitude. "Really?" Then, she catches herself. Can't let that cruel streak show, after all. "I mean, not that I'm glad, but…"

He remembers that he's chipless now. Buffy was meant to be his third Slayer, but that's unthinkable, now. He's got easy pickings of all the Potentials and every one of her so-called friends, and right now he'd like to tear the throats out of all of them for doing this to her. "Oh, you say the word and she's a footnote in history. I'll make it look like a _painful_ accident." And yet, try as he might, he just can't picture it, can't see himself doing it.

She sighs. The gesture's probably appreciated, on some level, but she won't admit that. "That's my problem," she tells him. "I say the word, some girl dies. Every time."

"There's always casualties in war," he says. It doesn't sound as reassuring as he intended it.

She repeats the word. "Casualties… It just sounds so… casual." Ever stating the obvious, she is. Only this time, she happens to have hit the nail on the head. "These are girls," she says, "that… I got killed." He wants to protest, tell her she's not to blame, but the words won't form fast enough, and all he can do is watch her beat herself up over it. "I cut myself off from them. All of them. I knew I was gonna lose some of them, but… I didn't…" She lets it trails off and sighs, standing up and starting to pace in irritation. "You know what? I'm still making excuses. I've always cut myself off. I've always… being the Slayer made me different. But… it's my fault I stayed that way." _And, of course, being ripped out of Heaven didn't have anything to do with it_, he thinks, but leaves his sarcasm out of her diatribe for the moment. "People are always trying to connect to me. And I just slip away." She looks at him, almost challenging. "You should know."

Oh, so she wants to talk about them, does she? It's a topic he's rather proficient in, if not one he's wanted to approach. He's not going to bring up the big stuff unless she does; he picks his words carefully. "I seem to recall a certain amount of connecting…"

"Oh, please," she snorts. "We were never close. You just wanted me because I was… unattainable."

"You think that's all that was?" he asks her, shocked she could believe that. Hasn't he tried over and over again to prove himself? He gets up, intending to settle this matter once and for all. She sits again, defeated. She doesn't want a fight over it; they've fought enough the past year.

"Please let's not go over the past…"

"Ohh, no, let's not hold back, here. I've hummed along to your pity ditty, and I think I should have the mike for a bit." He cringes at himself, glad she doesn't know of his poetic past. That was a William rhyme if ever he said one. He's got a lot to say to her, now, thoughts running through his brain and phrases he'd die to be able to say to her and have her believe them.

"Fine," she concedes. "The stage is yours. Cheer me up."

~*~

She waits, wondering what he's going to come up with this time. It occurs to her that she's never been this patient before, never let him have his say, because she knows he can talk and talk without ever really getting to the point. The way she sees it, though, none of them might come back alive in a few days, and even chipless, souled vampires deserve a final rant against the world.

He seems to think about it, trying to put together his thoughts. Then, all he can come up with is, "You're insufferable."

"Thank you," she mutters. "That really helped."

"I'm not trying to cheer you up," he says, indignant.

"Then what_ are_ you trying to say?" But does she really want to know? It's going in a negative direction right now, and that thought lingers: does he still love her? She's not even sure she wants the answer.

"I don't know!" He's rising to the bait, and annoyed with himself for doing it. She'd forgotten just how easy it was to get him this riled up. "I'll know when I'm done saying it. Something pissed me off, and I just…" He remembers. "Unattainable. That's it."

"Fine. I'm attainable. I'm… I'm an attain-athon," she says, humouring him. "May I please just go to sleep?" She's too tired to be dealing with this. She's even beyond caring now if he loves her or not; it's not like it'll make any difference, either way. They'll both be dead in less than a week, so what does it matter if he loves her?

As he kneels to her level, and meets her gaze, she realises it matters a whole lot more than she thought. Suddenly, knowing how Spike feels - or doesn't, as the case may be - has become the most important thing in the world to her. "You listen to me," he says, and she wants to, for the first time she can remember. "I've been alive a bit longer than you, and dead a lot longer than that. I've seen things you couldn't imagine, and done things I'd rather you didn't. Don't exactly have a reputation for being a thinker. I follow my blood, which doesn't exactly rush in the direction of my brain." She wants to laugh at the ironic comment. Her body won't let her, so she listens. Besides, she gets the impression he's leading up to something, and his voice has never been more hypnotising. "So I make a lot of mistakes," he continues, "a lot of wrong bloody calls. A hundred plus years… and there's only one thing I've ever been sure of. You." He gives her a weak smile that almost - almost - reaches his eyes to dispel the sadness there, and then he lifts a hand to touch her. His skin is like ice; she flinches at the contact and pulls away. She averts her gaze, but not fast enough to avoid the flash of pain in his eyes.

"Hey, look at me," he says, coaxing her out of the protective shell she's formed around herself. "I'm not askin' you for anything." She realises too late that it was never about him, only about her. "When I say 'I love you', it's not because I want you, or because I can't have you. It has nothin' to do with me." Oh, God, is the relief obvious to him, too? Does her expression reflect how much it means to her to know that nothing's changed? She almost forgets to keep listening. "I love what you are," he tells her, and he means it. "What you do. How you try. I've seen your kindness, and your strength. I've seen the best and the worst of you." And she's certain she looks a mess right now, her face all tear-streaked and her eyes all puffy from tiredness, but he'd tell her she was beautiful anyway. "And I understand with perfect clarity exactly what you are. You're a Hell of a woman. You're the One, Buffy…"

He's right, and she knows it. He's always right when it comes to her. The tears fall; she doesn't bother to pretend they're not. "I don't want to be the One."

"I don't want to be this good-looking and athletic, but we all have crosses to bear," he says, immediately lightening the mood. She laughs a little, but it feels hollow; she thinks he deserves more for his effort, but she's too exhausted. He's succeeded in making her feel a little better, though, and at least she knows, now, that his feelings never changed. She shifts position, lies down on the unfamiliar bed. "You get some rest now," he mutters, getting up. "I'll check in before first light. You can decide how you want."

She watches him as he nears the door. "Spike?"

~*~

Her voice is all he hears in the room, and it's enough to make him turn around to face her. Despite his best efforts, all of the old feelings did resurface, and it's too much effort to try and deny it. He loves her, with all of his brand new soul. He'll deny her nothing, now. Love's bitch, indeed.

"Could you… stay here?"

Those four words are like a sacred blessing, when only a few minutes ago she was begging him to leave her alone. He can't speak, won't, for fear of his voice cracking over the words. He manages a shaky "Sure" and slowly heads back to the centre of the room. Some part of him awaits retribution, so he keeps his eyes on hers for that telltale flicker of malice. It doesn't appear; she means this, she honestly wants him to stay with her tonight.

Regretfully, he tears his gaze from hers to seek out a place to sleep; his eyes alight on something lumpy and amorphous that might be furniture, and he removes his duster for the night. He mutters to himself, to keep on proving it's all real. "That diabolical old torture device, the comfy chair. It'll do me fine…"

"No," she says, and his head snaps back to look at her. Does she expect him to sleep on the floor? A slightly nervous smile graces her lips. "I mean… here…" He watches, not quite believing it, as she shuffles over a little, to her right. He's frozen. He can't do anything but stare dumbly at her. She doesn't want… no, she can't… can she? After everything they've been through- "Would you just hold me?"

The query is so quiet, he barely hears it, even with his heightened senses. She looks lost and alone, terrified he'll refuse. It's all he can do to stop himself from bursting into tears right there, but, no matter what, he has his pride. Again, he doesn't speak. If he does, he'll ruin it, so he simply gives her an acknowledging smile, and forces his legs to carry him to her. When she cringed from his touch, he'd lost all hope, memories hitting him of that fateful night in her bathroom, and now it seems like a dream. He's not entirely conscious of his movement as he approaches her.

He doesn't break her level gaze, in case she disappears. If this is a dream, then he wants to see it through. He realises there's barely room for him on the bed, despite the apparent miles left on the other side of her, and he perches carefully on the edge, giving her a chance to change her mind. He reaches his arm out slowly, around her shoulders.

Without hesitation, she allows herself to fall into his half-embrace, resting her head on his shoulder, and snuggling into his side. He strokes her hair, no longer caring if she minds or not - sometimes, it is about him - and mentally counts the hours until sunrise. He knows this is a one-off chance, and he's going to make the most of it.

_To be continued…_

**A/N:** Honestly, this time I'll try and finish it quicker. There's only one more part to this, which I'm currently writing. And then I've got a couple of post-"Cradle" ficlets to write that've been buzzing around my brain for a while. Anyway. Please R&R. 


	2. Part Two

**COUNTERPOINT - "TOUCHED"**

_**Disclaimer, etc. as before.  
Author's Notes:** Well, here's the shamelessly fluffy and equally angsty part two of the Counterpoint. I'll change the title when I can think of something suitable - suggestions thereof would be much appreciated. Anyway, for this part, I've tried to make it somewhat prophetic for "Chosen". If it makes it more interesting, pretend you haven't seen the finale and don't have a clue what's going to happen… It would have been fun to write this before seeing it and spoiler-free, actually, but at least I've got something to work with. I'm also playing somewhat with Spike's opening line of "Honey, you're home," in "End of Days" because it seemed just too random for my liking. Maybe there'll be a sequel using that conversation, too. Anyway, I'm rambling. Forgive me, and enjoy =)_

Part Two

She wonders how she could have doubted it. How could she possibly have thought he'd stopped loving her? For all the times she said she didn't believe him, those three words were all she could ever rely on. Always at the wrong moment, always when she didn't want to hear them, he'd be there. She's missed it, more than she thought she would.

He doesn't say it again. He doesn't even say it directly, but she can tell he wants to. She can practically feel him biting his tongue to stop from talking. He radiates affection she's never let him give and she wonders what she might have missed. Maybe if they're both brave enough, she'll find out.

He hasn't moved since she cuddled up to him, but it doesn't surprise her. He's scared of hurting her again; she's just as scared of hurting him, but not in the same way. He's even stopped stroking her hair, stopped his unnecessary, habitual breathing.

"Spike…" He tenses even more, if possible. She tries to look up, but can't see his eyes; she doesn't move her head, though, in case he thinks she's running. Instead, she reaches over for his hand. "It's okay," she says. "I'm not going anywhere." This time, she does look up, because he refuses to say anything. When he sees the truth in her eyes, he lets out the breath he's been holding, and relaxes a little. He squeezes her hand, as if she's his lifeline.

~*~

He's lost track of how much time has passed. It feels like hours, but maybe it's minutes. Maybe it's mere seconds; he doesn't care, anyway, because right now he doesn't want to think about this coming to an end. Buffy's lying in his arms, of her own volition, and as much as he knows it sounds stupid, this makes up for everything. If the sun dusts him come morning, he'll crumble a happy vampire.

Her hand is small and warm in his, and real. No matter where she lies, they fit together, two halves of one whole. She stares at him, and he wishes he didn't have to blink - for every split second of darkness, he dreads opening his eyes and finding himself alone - so he could savour what he can see in her eyes. It's not quite love, but it's more than friendship; there's trust in her gaze, and curiosity. Perhaps she's trying to read his soul. She strokes his hand with her thumb, and everything - all of the pain and hurt of the past, the impending war with the First, the doubt, the entire universe outside the stranger's bedroom in which they lie - melts away into nothingness. Compared to the previous year's activities, it's barely anything, but it means more than all the various encounters put together.

_I'm drownin' in you, Summers; Buffy; love. I never stopped bloody drowning. I never even tried to reach the soddin' surface._

God knows how long they've been staring at each other. However long ago it was, Buffy pleaded with him to let her sleep, and now she won't look away. Not that he wants her to, anyway.

Her voice breaks through the silence again - he admires that she can trust herself to speak at a time like this, although he doubts this means as much to her - and he's so lost in her eyes that he almost forgets to worry about what she might say.

"Everything you said before," she reminds him, a question inevitable. "Did you really mean that?"

There's no doubt that he can detect in her tone, only genuine inquisitiveness. He knows a nod won't suffice as an answer, and he finds courage enough to speak. "Always do," he tells her. "Always have."

She gives a nod of relief. "I-I thought maybe you…" She changes her mind before she finishes the sentence, and averts her gaze.

"What?" he prods, bravely. He's surprised when she looks him in the eye again, ready to entreat her problem to him.

"I was worried," she says. "I… thought I'd lost you."

He's puzzled. "The Watcher's mission wasn't that dangerous, pet. Probably might've died of boredom, but-"

"Not that," she interrupts. She's silent again, unsure how to word her thoughts. When she finds the words, they surprise him - but that's just par for the course this evening, after all. "I was… I was afraid you'd stopped loving me."

He stifles laughter, but only just, amazed she could ever think that, even more amazed that she's admitted, in passing, that she believes him. He wants to say the words, prove it to her, but it doesn't feel quite right, as if it'll ruin the moment. Instead, he lets her know that nothing's changed, that nothing _will_ change. "Never…"

"Tell me again," she asks. "I think I've missed hearing it…"

He wants nothing more than to grant her request, but a memory stirs of a similar demand, and it didn't end well. The last thing he wants to do is jeopardise what little she's giving him right now, and, regretfully, he shakes his head. She looks hurt, and it breaks his heart, but this is about self-preservation, now. If he tells her, he's not sure what might happen, and he's not prepared to risk it.

He shifts position a little, to make her more comfortable, his hand never letting go of hers. When she automatically pillows her head on his chest, he can't resist stroking her hair again. The rustling of their movement stops, and he speaks, quietly. "You get some rest, Buffy. You'll still hear in your sleep."

~*~

That's when she remembers how he used to mutter to her when he thought she was sleeping, whisper sweet nothings that she'd never allow herself to hear when fully conscious. There were times when she woke up to the sound of his voice, and she wanted so much, back then, to believe that everything he said was true: that she really was as beautiful and amazing as he said, that she could ever bring herself to deserve the kind words he bestowed on her. Soon enough, she'd turn it around in her mind, claiming to herself that he didn't - couldn't - care for her. This time, she'll listen, even if she has to pretend to be asleep, and even if it takes everything in her not to answer back.

Beneath her ear, she almost thinks she can hear a heartbeat, and pretends that the warmth she feels is his, not just her own. She's content and sleepy, safe in his arms; let the world end at sunrise, and she'd welcome oblivion so long as he was holding her, just like this. She feels her already closed eyelids getting heavier, her thoughts rambling to forgotten places.

"Could you sing to me?" she asks. It's as serious a request as the one before; it sounded ridiculous in her head, and just as ridiculous now it's been asked, but he doesn't comment. It's apt, on some level, considering what happened the last time he serenaded her; she's not asking for a "breakaway pop hit", or a ballad, or a love song. She just wants to hear his voice.

He clears his throat, nervously, and she bites back the smile she can feel forming. He's got stage fright, would probably be the first person to refuse to sing in public, but he's going to humour her. He starts a little shakily, his vocal cords not used to the activity, and his voice is soft. He sings the only thing that comes to mind; under the circumstances, it couldn't have been anything else.

_"Early one morning, just as the sun was rising…"_

By the time he reaches the end of the song, she's succumbed to sleep.

~*~

To think, he just sang the Slayer a lullaby. It's just the icing on the cake, now. A day ago, he would never have thought he'd be here, singing her to sleep. Her breathing slows perceptibly, her heart rate dropping with it; only when he's sure she's fast asleep does he risk placing a kiss on the top of her head. Is it possible, he wonders, to miss something one has never experienced? Because it feels like it's something he's been doing for years, but at the same time, feels new and wonderful, a moment to be savoured.

It seems an eternity since he's watched her sleep; this time, at least he's got permission. Now there's no fear of reprimand, he can say all he wants to, just like before. He keeps his voice low so as not to wake her again, and lets the words pour out.

"Said you'd hear in your sleep," he says, "but I don't think you can, more's the pity. But then again, 'sprobably for the best. I know you don't like it when I talk too much." He lets out a quiet sigh. "Can't believe you doubted me like that, pet. I've not exactly told you, I admit that, but I thought the soul-getting would be proof enough." Even when he doesn't have to face her, it's impossible to explain it. He stops, lowers his voice even further. "I love you, Buffy. I never stopped." She shifts a little, moving in her sleep as she reacts to a dream. He quietens a moment, in case she wakes up, and when she stills again, he continues. "When all of this is over… if you still want to hear it, I'll say it. Hundreds of times, if needs be. If you ever feel like sayin' it back, well… I guess we'll cross that bridge when it's built, eh, love?"

She doesn't move any more; her dream's passed and she's sleeping like the dead. Ironic, considering who she's lying with. He's run out of words, now; if they all survive this, he'd rather wait and tell her to her face. She's given him so much hope these past few weeks that he doesn't want to jinx it; he's not even sure if he's imagined it all. Perhaps he's still stuck in the school basement being taunted by the First; maybe this is a hallucination brought on from the pain, and he's still trapped in that cave, waiting for her to rescue him. Either way, the First's going awfully far to drive him crazy; the Slayer's been doing that for years without even trying, after all.

Her even breathing is hypnotic, and he finds himself getting sleepy. It's hours until sunrise, yet more until sunset, and he was planning to sleep through the day. He doesn't want to miss a moment of this, but unconsciousness is threatening. He's committed every second to memory so far; if he's lucky, he'll wake before she does and he'll get to watch her again. But then again, he'd rather be asleep, so he doesn't have to face the inevitability of her leaving.

~*~

As a child, she perfected the art of pretending to be asleep. When her parents argued late at night, it was impossible to try and sleep through it; she'd hear her mother shout-hiss down the stairs, "You'll wake our daughter, Hank. Keep your voice down!" before coming to check on her. She'd hear the door open and lie there, ever so still, practically holding her breath until her mother was sure she was asleep.

She feels a little treacherous, lying here, listening to him, but the words are so beautiful, so comforting, and she might not get to hear them again. (Or, then again, she might. If she can convince a vampire, whose every sense is trained to her, that she's asleep, she can do anything.) She wants to answer him back, thank him, say _something_, but knows she can't. She wants to kiss him, so softly, just to see the look on his face when she does, because she knows, for some reason, that it wouldn't go any further than that tonight. She wants to thank him, to tell him she's sorry for everything, to say she forgives him, she trusts him, she'd like him to know he can hold her like this again. And more than anything, she wants to stay right here, forever, until she's absolutely sure about how she feels, until she can look him in the eyes and tell him, outright, that she loves him.

It's wrong to keep on giving him such hope like this, when they both know it's impossible for her to say the three words he'd willingly die to hear. She still feels like she's using him, in a way, except she's sure this means more to him than she can even start to comprehend. Everything's confusing; it always has been where he's concerned. It's time to look inside herself and figure it out, once and for all.

A second later, she knows. He brushes a strand of hair out of her eyes at that moment, only for it to fall back again, and her heart jolts at the simple gesture. It's barely even a touch, but there's such a magnitude of feeling in it that she feels like crying for the loss of what they might have had. _You've been in love with him all along, you moron_, her mind chastises her, _and now you probably won't get a chance to tell him_.

She ignores the inner voice. The rhythmic, controlled breathing beneath her head finally lulls her to sleep.

~*~

He knows he's dreaming, but he doesn't try to fight it. The room is warmer, now; it must be sun-up. The window points north, so at least he won't burn up. Neither of them remembered to draw the curtains last night.

He doesn't remember falling asleep, and he's in that semi-lucid state where it's impossible to wake up completely, even though he knows he has to at some point. This particular dream's too nice to leave behind. She's left his side - but that was inevitable, and not even his subconscious can prevent it - but he can sense her nearby, even though he can't quite see her. She's moving about the room, rustling things, making herself known, and then she's at his side again, though not touching. She's whispering something that makes his heart do somersaults, even though he knows it's not real, and then she presses her lips to his, and then she's gone again…

~*~

She wakes in strange surroundings, and panics for only a moment. The arms in which she lies immediately remind her of where she is. It's familiar to wake up and find herself wrapped up in him, only this time she'll grant him the courtesy of not running away immediately. Much as she'd love to stay here all day and maybe for another night, she knows she's got an errand to run. Caleb needs to be stopped, and whatever he's protecting has to be uncovered, and she's running out of time.

Oh, but she wishes she could tell him how she feels. It's so tempting to wake him up, stare into those tortured ice-blue eyes and let him know, straight away. But she knows she'll never leave if she does. And besides, she'd rather let him sleep so he doesn't have to see her leave.

Carefully, she extricates her arm from beneath him, her hand from his, and rolls away until she can sit without disturbing him. She watches him a while; he's stopped breathing, which probably means he's dreaming. Do vampires dream? Or is it just this particular vampire that does? There's so much she doesn't know about him - about his history - things that, at any other time, now, she'd be eager to listen to him tell her. Maybe when it's over…

After a while, she gets up and moves around the bed to check the sun's position. He should be fine, but she draws the curtain shut a little anyway, just in case. She looks around the room in the morning light; it looks so different, now. The angles are softer, the colours brighter, the atmosphere less depressing, and it's only partially due to the sunlight. His leather duster still lies, discarded, on the comfy chair.

She doesn't want to just leave him like this. Not without some kind of explanation or expression of gratitude. After all, if not for him, she'd still be wallowing in self-pity right now. An idea strikes her, and she sets about searching the room, quietly, rooting through drawers, cringing at the various personal belongings of the stranger she kicked out the previous night. It takes a few minutes, but she finally finds what she's looking for.

If there were time, she'd write him an epistle of epic proportions. Instead, she scribbles some hasty words and hopes beyond hope that he'll understand the greater meaning. She returns to the other side of the bed and places it, folded in half, on the other pillow so he'll see it when he wakes. She tries to tell her legs to walk her to the door, back to the vineyard, but they disobey, and she finds herself sitting on the edge of the bed, drawing up her legs, lying parallel to him once more.

Well, what's a few more minutes, anyway?

She feels ridiculous, but suddenly she's speaking to him, returning the favour. It's strange, knowing he won't answer back, but it's also quite comforting, since she can say what she wants without having to worry about a reaction. "If you can hear me," she says, "I want you to shut me up. Right now." He doesn't move. Damn him. Now she'll have to talk to get rid of the thoughts in her head. "Thanks. You're a big help. And I can't believe I'm being sarcastic when you're not even awake to appreciate it…" She sighs. "I'm not good at this. I just… I didn't want to just leave you, after last night. You deserve to wake up and find me still here, but… but I have to go do this. I need to find Caleb and whatever he's got hidden at the vineyard. Anyway…" She stops her rambling and gets to the point. "I guess what I want to say is… thank you. For last night. It was… well, 'nice' sounds so pathetic, but… yeah, it was nice. I wouldn't be able to do this if it wasn't for you."

She links her fingers with his on the bed, distracting herself from the imminent task ahead - both physical and verbal. "God, I _really_ hope you can't hear all of this…" She sighs again. From somewhere, the sunlight peeps from behind a cloud and reflects off something - the light fitting, perhaps - and briefly illuminates their joined hands. Hers shields his from the rays until they pass again. "I'm sorry, Spike," she manages to choke out, suddenly finding herself close to tears. "I really, truly am. I'm sorry it had to come to this, and I'm sorry you felt you needed to get that soul to prove yourself to me. I know it's probably a good thing, in the long run, but you must have realised how much it would…" The sentence trails off into a sob, but she chokes it back. "Dammit…" she mutters. When she's regained her composure, she continues. "When this is all over, I'm going to get Xander to build me a picket fence - symbolic, y' know? - and you can stay, and when I come home from patrol or work or heck, maybe even college, I can call out 'Honey, I'm home' like we're in a cheesy sitcom or something. You can tell me you love me, and I promise not to run away any more. I'll listen, I swear it. Maybe I'll say it back… I think… I think I could love you, Spike. I think I already do."

And now she wants a reaction, a glance, anything. He shifts a little in his sleep, but nothing more. She's run out of words, and she's wasting precious time here, much as it pains her to think of it like that. She sits up again, wiping the tears from her eyes, and makes to move again, forcing herself to stand, walk, think clearly. At least her brain is less fuzzed now.

She reaches the halfway point between the bed and the door, and stops. Damn her body for not cooperating this morning; she's beside him again, his back to her, and he seems balanced precariously on the edge of the bed. She leans over, almost bent double, holds her hair back out of the way with one hand, and places a soft kiss to his lips, as best she can.

With that final gesture, she heads determinedly out of the door. She's got a priest to beat up.

~*~

He wakes alone, but he's not surprised. The dream makes up for it, somehow, and he can't believe how real it seemed, as if she really was there, saying those things, kissing him goodbye. He looks around hastily, just to make sure - definitely no sign of her, and her scent's long gone, too - and then something on the other pillow catches his eye.

He reaches for it. It's a letter, folded neatly in half and obviously intended for him. He unfolds it, and reads it a little tenaciously, afraid of what it might say; he's expecting a sincere apology, something along the lines of "Don't get your hopes up", her telling him that there's still no chance. He keeps his dream fresh in his mind to cling to as he reads.

The words he finds surprise him. They're hastily scribbled and simple enough, but he can read between the lines.

_"Spike,_

Sorry I have to leave like this. You were right, about everything. I need to find Caleb and I'll be back at the house straight after. Come home as soon as you can and I'll explain what's happening.

Thank you.

Buffy."

Of the whole short note, only four words stand out. "Sorry" is one of them, and "thank you" comprises another two. An apology and gratitude, both from the Slayer; he's dumbstruck by the thought. It takes a few seconds for the fourth to register. "Home". It's too late to question when she started thinking of her home as his home, and he's not sure he wants to. Part of him tries to believe she wasn't thinking about what she wrote, but another, more determined part of him, knows she was. It's not like Buffy to make that sort of mistake, but it is like her to slip in something subtle and meaningful that throws him for a loop.

Her words to him from a few days ago ring in his ears. _ 'I'm not ready for you not to be here…'_ Oh, yes, that 'home' was intentional, no doubt about it.

His early-morning dream comes back to him. He couldn't hear what she was saying, not really, but her tone of voice was enough for him to work it out. Reading over the letter again, he suddenly remembers, clear as crystal, every single word she said. And then, he figures out what all the rustling was about - she was looking for paper and something to write with - and simultaneously, he wonders if, maybe, it wasn't a dream after all…

He scowls at the morning sunlight keeping him from Revello Drive, even though she's probably not back there herself yet. Every hour is an eternity between him and his Slayer; he wonders just how far he'd get if he tried to run. Then again, he should probably spend the time thinking things through. She spoke to him in his sleep - and now he realises that she must have heard everything he'd said to her in the night - and he knows the reason he does that: so there's no risk of difficult conversation, and no danger of getting hurt. She's terrified of the possibility of loving him, and he's always known it. He should probably use this time to mellow again, figure out how to approach her when he does go back there.

In the meantime, he's going to hang onto the letter. William wants him to analyse every last syllable of it, scrawl over it in coloured ink and make notes and underline things, but he's not going to desecrate it. He's got time to commit every word of it to memory, as well as everything she said before she left, and that's exactly what he's going to do.

Besides, he might not get another chance to hear her say she loves him.

_F~I~N_

**A/N:** Or possibly I'll do the "End of Days" conversation, too. Except I really don't want to because that'll mean I'll end up re-writing "Chosen", and we'll have another doesn't-want-to-end epic on our hands for another 11 months. Gah. Anyway, I guess if anyone's desperate for me to do that one, I'll do it, but I won't be happy about it. :P Review, pretty please… 


End file.
